


Fairytales Such As These

by coulson_is_an_avenger



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, M/M, No beta we die like archival assistants, Not Canon Compliant, Season/Series 05, Trans Martin Blackwood, but they're important to me nonetheless, kisses to wake jon up from statements, many thoughts about time and hope in a timeless hopeless apocalypse, neither of those facts are particularly relevant, set sometime after MAG 173, the boys are communicating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coulson_is_an_avenger/pseuds/coulson_is_an_avenger
Summary: This is no fairytale, Martin knows. There is no reward for love in this world of unending fear, of senseless cruelty and suffering. Martin knows what kind of story he is in, and it is not the kind of story where the fate of the universe hangs on the balance of a kiss.But isn’t it?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 19
Kudos: 175





	Fairytales Such As These

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to stop thinking about this concept for weeks, and I am a hopeless optimist at heart so here's a little one shot about actions of love being the greatest antithesis of fear and all that good stuff. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you are all staying as safe and healthy as you can!! Lots of love, always. Keep hoping.
> 
> Also! If you'd like to see my designs for these two, [I drew a little something for this!](https://mossy-rainfrog.tumblr.com/post/623479352280154112/what-if-he-doesnt-wake-up-this-time-i-couldnt)

There is no time anymore, not in a way that matters.

Not in the way that ticks defeatedly around Martin's watch, not in terms of day and night and morning and evening and this hour and this minute or twenty. It's all subjective now, all moments of fear stretched apart to fully consume that which inhabits them. Gone are the days of reliable seconds and finite minutes, nowadays time truly does slow; bending and stretching to wring out every last drop of terror from its captives, shrinking to cut short the moments of relief and hope, rushing forward again to encompass its livestock's sweet suffering once more.

Martin should have discarded the watch long ago, he knows. It does nothing but lie, promising the consistent passage of a concept that no longer functions. It is no more than stubborn gears, and it serves no purpose except to remind Martin of the world they've left behind, but still, it provides a small vestige of normalcy, a little comfort that sits on his wrist like a promise, and so he clings to it, the same way he clings to hope.

Hope is a difficult thing in this place. Martin simultaneously feels like he has too much of it and not enough of it, slipping from his fingers when the fear of their reality begins to overtake him, and yet filling up his lungs, as necessary as breath. Like time, hope is constantly shifting in his hands.

Another moment that pretends to be a second ticks by.

Even now, in a moment as simple as sitting beside The Archivist and watching him describe horrors the world couldn't hope to deserve, time warps and alters around his words. It clings to the sharpest panics, draws out around the slow agonies, speeds up with frantic mania as the victims in his voice try to run. Time bends to even words in this place.

Martin doesn't know how much time has gone by, is what he's trying to say, but he feels like he's been sitting there with his hands over his ears for quite a lot of it. Too much of it, if he had to take a guess, although he knows he can't be certain of the comfort of time anymore.

Still, he sneaks a glance back at Jon; crouched over a tape recorder, moving mouth and waving hair, expression alight with the thrill of knowledge, crown of blazing eyes hovering above him like an awful, inverted halo; watching over the wasteland that was their world with sick fervor and bathing everything nearby in a deep, negative green glow.

Martin remotely wonders if he should be this close to the full power of an Archivist taking a statement, but gone are the days of wandering off to avoid listening; it feels far more dangerous to be apart now. After the Lonely, after the Web, after every moment they've been separated. They have nothing but each other and their hope now, and to lose one could very well be to lose the other. 

So Martin watches, patient, to see if Jon is nearing the end. The Archivist goes on for a few moments more, his expression shifting to match that of what he speaks, his brows drawing together and his expression turning cruel, then terrified, then blank, and back, while through it all, the eyes over his head stare somewhere Martin cannot see, drinking their fill of some poor soul trapped in the world. Helpless. Alone. Counting on them. Martin can’t bring himself to look away.

He isn't certain how long he watches, but suddenly, with a final flourish of emotion from Jon's intent face, The Archivist's mouth closes on the story. His brilliant eyes shut for a moment, and Martin blinks, thinking he has caught him at the end of a statement. This is how he looked last time, Martin remembers, before coming back to himself, and he exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

But, before Martin can lift the hands from his ears, The Archivist looks up again, eyes alight once more, even brighter, and every single eye in his crown of voyeur shifts as one to look elsewhere in the middle distance, and a sinking stone drops in Martin's gut as he realizes that Jon is not finishing his statement, but beginning another.

The stone settles in Martin's stomach; cold and sharp. How long have they really been sitting here? He wonders, a new fear clinging to the thought this time. How many victims has he gone through? If Jon had been carrying on with statement after statement, would he even realize? How many has he taken so far? _What if he doesn't wake up this time?_

Panic sweeps over him first, hard and fast, the kind of panic that makes him want to reach out and slap Jon awake, to force away the Eye and the Monsters and the horrible everything that surrounds them, to respond fiercely to awaken him, so he'll know with decisive clarity that things will be okay. But immediately after that comes a wave of deep aching, thinking about Jon's words the last time, how he had said in a voice just an inch away from sharp: _thank you for not hitting me._

It's still burning a hole of shame and regret in Martin's chest, and he berates himself fiercely for even considering repeating the action. God, no. No, no he won't do that again. Not ever, if he gets any say, and he's making the _choice_ to have a say. His hands are going to be gentle on Jon like they should always have been, regardless of the horror that pervades their lives now. That is a promise he is making to himself and to Jon, from now on.

But with that being said, he's still afraid, and he still needs Jon to wake.

So what else? Surely a shake or a touch would be too little, and he'd need his hands free and away from his ears - if he gets caught listening too, then there might not be hope for either of them - so what, what can he possibly—

Martin pauses as an idea comes to him, one spawned from old movies on T.V. with faded colors and sweeping soundtracks and flowing animation and bright young lovers whose affection surrounds the narrative of the entire story. Characters who can save each other from anything, any evil stepmother or dark magic or grave with a kiss. _A kiss._

This is no fairytale, Martin knows. There is no reward for love in this world of unending fear, of senseless cruelty and suffering. Martin knows what kind of story he is in, and it is not the kind of story where the fate of the universe hangs on the balance of a kiss.

But isn’t it?

What greater defiance to this uncaring world is there, what greater antithesis to fear than love? What greater promise can he make than this; this choice to awaken Jon from this web of horror with a gesture of affection? What greater force than love in a world where there is no reward for such a thing?

That's his key, he decides, determination setting in his chest, and Martin scoots himself over the few feet between them until he is sitting immediately before Jonathan Sims; all blazing eyes that feel hot like spotlights on his skin, bent over a tape recorder with the outline of negative green light washing all around him from a crown of awful sight.

He doesn't look quite human. He looks like The Archivist in all his glory. He looks terrifying. And Martin is so, so afraid for him. He kisses him.

It's clumsy, Martin's hands still pressed over his ears, and Jon still very much so talking, trying to narrate yet another subject of unending pain despite the pressure of another mouth, but Martin holds firm, slips his hands from over his ears to fist in Jon's jacket once he knows the sound won't escape his own mouth, lips pressed dutifully to Jon’s, as still as he can manage.

If time still mattered, it might have only taken a moment for it to work, but time does not play by their rules anymore, and so moment stretches out into minutes to let Martin's fear crescendo, until he's half sure that it hasn't worked; he'll have to find another way to revive him. He still holds on, both out of desperation and the hope he keeps in his lungs, and then Jon's breath hitches sharply in his chest, and the movements and vibrations of his attempted words cease, and then The Archivist stills, or perhaps a better word; melts.

He uncoils from his hunched position, straightening himself out like Martin is showing him how to make himself right again, brings his hands up, one to grip onto Martin's bicep and the other to encircle the back of his neck, in a way that speaks of both gratefulness and wanting, and Martin lets out a little sigh as tension he didn't even know he was holding seeps out of his shoulders and spine, and he presses his nose closer into Jon’s cheek.

A distant part of Martin thinks he should let go now that Jon has been woken from the statement, now that they need to talk about what he's heard, what's happening, their next steps, etc, but the thought makes a greater part of Martin ache, so he allows himself another moment of comfort, letting himself hold onto Jon and feeling Jon hold onto him and pressing affection to the mouth that these days seems doomed to carry so much more horror than love. It must be so heavy, Martin thinks, to have so many lives waiting in your throat, in your chest. So many tragedies beneath the surface, begging to be brought out into the light by a force that feasts on that pain. And yet, Jon's kiss is light, a tentative thing that still doesn't ask for too much and doesn't hope for too much even after all this time and Martin can't help but kiss him more because of it. 

The tips of Jon's fingers brush through his curls, and Martin releases his hold on Jon's jacket to cup his cheeks, cradling Jon's face in his hands like he's precious. When he runs his thumbs over his cheeks, though, he feels something wet, and only then does he finally pull back, surprise written on his face.

When his eyes blink open, Jon looks almost human again, despite the crown of eyes that has settled back across his brow, and the glow of power that still radiates from him like static, but Jon has tears snaking through the dust on his face now, and he's still clinging on to Martin's neck and arm like his life depends on it as he gives a shuddering breath and leans into the touch on his face like it's the only thing in the world worth feeling. The only thing in the world that can keep him anchored to what’s real.

"Jon?" Martin asks gently, still running his thumb over Jon's cheek, wiping at his tears. "What's wrong?"

Jon's breath hitches again as he smiles, a tentative, fragile thing daring to let itself be seen in the face of the end of everything, and finally opens his eyes to get a look at the one he loves. The Beholding's glow in his eyes is dim, and the earnestness Martin sees there is bright, and so achingly human.

"Nothing." He exhales, turning to press his lips to Martin's palm. Light, gentle. "I just- that- I appreciated that. What you did."

"Kissed you?" Martin asks, although he knows it's more. His own eyes must betray that he knows it to be more. 

"You woke me up. In a… gentler way." Jon's eyes are closed again. "It was nice. It was good. It worked. You… you _listened_ when I mentioned it last time."

"Of course I listened, Jon, of course I did." Martin draws nearer until their knees are brushing, until their silhouettes might seem merged if seen from a distance. They are one unit, one force of love against the travesty of the broken world around them. One promise and one reason against the eternity of everything. It's fitting to let their shadows cross. He looks earnestly up at Jon's face.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about before. I've been afraid- of losing you to the Eye, and losing you to this world, and there's times when I don't know if you're going to wake up from the statement you're… venting, or whatever it is you do now, and it seemed like the best choice before. I shouldn't have let that convince me to hurt you, though. I shouldn't have hit you, Jon, ever. After everything, you deserve to trust that I, of all people, am going to be gentle to you through this."

Jon's still pressing his lips to Martin's palm, but he's looking back at him now, and his breaths are shaky.

"I shouldn't have needled you about the children.” Jon answers, by way of accepting his apology and replying with his own. “Shouldn't have snapped. I'm sorry too. And- thank you, Martin." Jon shuffles a little closer himself, bringing himself forward until he can rest his forehead against Martin's, breathing in the same air as him. "I love you."

"I love you too." Martin promises, and his arms are around Jon's neck in something of a loose hug. They're still for another few moments before Martin opens an eye up and looks up at Jon, voicing a question that’s settled like dust on his ribs; quietly unsettling and asking his attention.

"I hope it's alright I didn't ask you this time. I want to keep up the habit of making sure it's okay before kissing you but ah, I don't think you could exactly answer? And, well—"

"No, no, it's quite alright," Jon chuckles, breath warm on Martin's face. "Henceforth, you have been granted explicit permission to kiss me to wake me up from… run-on statements."

Martin laughs, a breathy chuckle that quickly turns into something more substantial as the laughter in his chest aches with disuse and seizes the moment to burst forth and flower into the world. The joy of it is contagious, and after a moment, Jon finds himself laughing along too, the sound unfamiliar on his lips, but bubbling up anyways, unable to hide under the radiance of the one he loves. They shrink back to giggles, arms still around each other, and take a moment to sit in companionable silence as the last of the chuckles die back down to contented sighs and grins.

The moment feels longer than it should, like the rebellion of joy in the face of fear is something it does not know how to handle, and time shifts itself to fully fill the moment, allowing them their laughs, allowing them their comforts. Martin is grateful for whatever the cause, grateful for the time they are granted to love each other in this way, even here, even now. He is grateful that the now carries on.

Jon strokes his hand along the back of Martin's neck and hums with affection for a moment, before leaning forward to kiss him gently on the cheek. When he draws back, he takes Martin’s hands in his own and smiles warmly, careful affection pouring from his features.

"Ready to push on?"

Martin pauses, taking in the sight he is seeing. For a moment, there's something less heavy in Jon's eyes, a sparkle of what lay in his eyes before the world changed, before Magnus brought about all of this. For a moment, there's something very akin to hope glimmering in the depths of his beholding-green eyes, and Martin could drink in that sight for days and never grow weary of it. This is his reason; this triumph that keeps him tethered to who they were and why they are going on. This is the hope he keeps in his chest; that Jon might believe in a happier ending, that in the end, all of this will have been worth it.

"Yes." He eventually declares, once he's decided he's got enough of the image stored in his treasure chest heart like a keepsake, just in case he doesn't see it again for a while. He squeezes Jon’s hands and he has hope. "Yeah, I am."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3


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